


TGA, not GTA, kid

by notapartytrick



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Hugs, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Peter Parker Feels, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Peter Parker Needs a Break, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is Trying His Best, Peter Parker is a Damsel in Distress, Peter Parker is a Mess, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Sleepy Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Loves Peter Parker, Worried Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:02:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23611240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notapartytrick/pseuds/notapartytrick
Summary: "Wait, where am I? Tony?""Pete, you just told me.""Yeah, right.""Do you think I'm joking?""If I'd told you, I'd remember where I was! But this place - I cannot remember where I am, for the life of me."Oh. Oh.Honestly, Tony's surprised it's taken this long for him to consider another reason for Peter's confusion.Now he's really scared.---In which Peter contracts a strange (and unintentionally comedic) form of memory loss, Tony stresses, and comfort is doled out accordingly. It'll all be okay in the end.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 103
Kudos: 688
Collections: IronDad Four Tags Challenge





	TGA, not GTA, kid

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again!! Quarantine is doing wonders for my writing output :)  
> Welcome to my first challenge fic! I'm now part of a group chat full of lovely people and opportunities to write as a community around a set of tags, so I jumped right on the bandwagon with this one! I hope y'all enjoy :)

Tony gets a call from Peter on Wednesday just shy of 9 PM.

 _Spider-Man,_ he thinks, diving for the call out of pure reflex.

It’s not like he has anything better to do. Pepper and Rhodey are away and he's reluctantly come to the conclusion that DUM-E and U are insufficient company to keep him from falling into a spiral he’s now self-aware enough of to know will result in some ridiculous accidental injury.

To be perfectly honest, he’d been pining for the kid.

Well, specifically, he’d been spinning, back and forth in abrupt semi-circular rotations on his chair in the workshop. His progress is halted instantly by the foot he plants on the floor. A second before he can swipe upwards and emit a string of over-protective proclamations, he pauses. _Give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he just wants a chat. Be a cool... mentor._ After sitting motionlessly through three rings, Tony gives up the pretence and holds the phone to his ear.

The response he receives is not what he'd schooled himself into expecting.

 _"Tony,"_ comes the unmistakeable voice of the teen troublemaker. Even through the static of the call, Tony can make out an alertness, an uncertainty to the word which sends him to his feet instantly where he begins to pace out of reluctance to call a suit before he's heard more than a single word. _"Uh, can, could you - gah, what is going on? - um..."_

Tony sucks in a breath. Hackles: raised. "Kid, you'll need to state your case pretty damn quick unless you want me to zip off to your location right now."

 _"Yeah, I'm - I'm trying to."_ The response is unusually curt, distracted. It barely sounds like the kid.

Tony doesn't want to get angry, but the lack of information in a possibly dangerous situation is rapidly chafing at his temper. "Okay," he levels tightly after Peter offers no further reply, "Are you in the suit?"

_"No."_

"Are you in trouble?"

 _"I mean... that's what I'm trying to figure out. I just - wow. Mind blank."_ And then, Peter Parker has the outrageous audacity to _laugh_. Despite the tense undertone of his previous speech, it's strangely lighthearted; Tony's jaw actually drops open a little in pure bewilderment.

Sticking out a hand that's already beginning to tremble in a telltale sign of stress, Tony calls the damn suit. Whatever batshit situation the kid is probably trying to explain his way out of, he's sure having the armour on won't hurt.

Peter's still rambling, darting from one subject to the other so violently Tony can barely keep track of what he's chirping on about. _"I think - but why wouldn't they at least tie me up or something? Wow, the ceiling is super high here - damn, there's a lot of people - maybe I_ am _on something, must be going insane - wait, hold on... hello? Am I - am I calling someone right now?"_

"Goldfish memory isn't a good look on you, Parker," Tony fires back, smothering his worry with snark. "It's me. Mister Stark."

Someone must have got a hold of the kid. That certainly calls for the suit. He hypothesizes while he listens, praying that he won't have to deal with a Peter who's been drugged up to his eyeballs. _How the hell that could have happened_ is a question for later. Maybe one for the ages, too.

_"Oh, awesome. I need... your help?"_

"Yeah, I know, we got that far. Where are you, kid?"

Peter loudly blows out a breath. Tony can practically hear him shrugging.

"There's _nothing_ around you that gives you any clue as to where you are?"

This conversation is taking a turn towards _kidnapping_ about as fast as Tony's heart rate is accelerating.

 _"Oh!"_ Peter interjects, infuriatingly at ease, _"Okay, what can I... you should see the ceiling on this place, Tony, it's really high..."_

Tony frowns.

_"Lots of, uh, people. They look normal. I'm sat at a table. How the hell did I get here?"_

"You tell me," mumbles Tony. He's getting almost nothing useful out of the kid, and his galloping heart is yearning for a nice clear declaration of _it was all a joke, I am one hundred percent okay and simply acting like the jackass kid I am, see you around, Mister Stark!_ Yes, he'd beat Peter's ass for it, but right now it seems an awful lot better than this uncertain alternative.

Just as Tony's sure he's going to, to use one of the kid's own phrases, _like, actually spontaneously combust,_ Peter exclaims, _"I found a sign! It says 'Queens Library, North Forest Park'."_

_Library? What in fresh hell is he playing at?_

As if in sympathy for the trials he's being put through, FRIDAY automatically slides open the skylight above Tony to allow him out in the Iron Man suit. He wastes no time in jetting off towards the library, wondering if he'll ever be able to scrub the frown of bemusement from his face after he sorts out this particular Peter-based fiasco.

The call patches through to his suit speakers not two seconds later and he's greeted once again with Peter's babbling speech: _"You would not believe the ceiling on this place, it's so high. Hey, I was thinking, what if I've been kidnapped, right? But surely I'd be tied up or something, which is probably why I'm so mixed up about it, I guess. But - wait, where am I? Tony?"_

"Pete, you _just_ told me."

_"Yeah, right."_

"Do you think I'm joking?"

_"If I'd told you, I'd remember where I was! But this place - I cannot remember where I am, for the life of me."_

Oh. _Oh._

Honestly, Tony's surprised it's taken this long for him to consider another reason for Peter's confusion.

 _Now_ he's really scared.

"Okay. Okay, kiddo," he begins falteringly, directing more power to his thrusters, trying not to sound as panicked as he is. "Does your head hurt at all?"

But no response arrives over the line which Tony comes to recognize is now dead.

"FRI, did he just _hang up on me?_ "

_"I'm afraid so."_

_I don't care if that kid does have a concussion, I'm gonna give him hell for this._

For a moment, Tony pauses, dumbfounded as he watches the city falling into shadow as it rushes by beneath him

_"Would you like me to call him again?"_

" _Yes_. Patch it through."

And yet the kid manages to call him back before FRIDAY can work her magic.

 _"Tony?"_ This time, there’s clear worry punctuating the kid's call.

"There you are, kid." Tony cuts straight to the chase, rushing to provide paltry comfort. "I'm coming for you, don't fret. Won't be--" he glances at his ETA, then pushes a little more power into his thrusters. "--a minute."

_"Yeah, see, I'm kinda... I don't know what's going on? But I'm in this place with a really tall ceiling..."_

And so the mind-scrambling torture continues.

Tony lands in front of the library after what must have been a decade of fruitlessly questioning the kid, paying no heed to discretion, half-ready to bust through the library doors fully suited, when he hears a disbelieving voice proclaim, "Okay, this is getting _weirder_ and _weirder._ "

Tony whips around and sees him standing aimlessly by the steps. A concoction of confusion, worry, amusement, and a disconcerting blankness wars across his face. Scanning his appearance, Tony notes no signs of physical struggle, injury or drug influence. He's dressed in an awful punny t-shirt Tony hasn't the patience to identify and an ill-fitting pair of jeans, just as always.

Then, without warning, the kid's countenance shifts to one of pure panic; he finds himself bombarded by an armful of Peter as the kid slams into him and grabs at the suit like it might disappear any moment. "Tony," he breathes between concerning hitches in his breath, "Tony, so glad you're here, thank God."

Tony returns the embrace absently, letting a hand thread upwards through the kid's scalp in a cursory scour for any lumps and finding none. "You remember calling me, right?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You called me."

"I called you?"

"Yup."

"...okay."

On the basis of the kid's shaky tone and utter cluelessness, Tony makes the executive decision of taking off right then and there, shifting the suit onto auto-pilot so he can focus all his attention on the wild-eyed kid he clutches.

Every minute or so, Peter appears to experience a Men-In-Black-style memory wipe, and he'll ask the same question: "Uh... how did I get here?" or "What are we doing flying around Queens?"

"I'm taking you to the hospital, bud," he says every time, "You're having some trouble with your memory, but I'm gonna fix it."

The truth is far from his reassuring declarations. Tony doesn't know what the hell is going on. Beneath his suit, a black, treacle-textured sludge is creeping inexorably over his being, overtaking reason, optimism, hope. It's dread.

What if he _can’t_ fix it?

His landing is unsteady and jarring, but he bears the weight of the impact and holds Peter away before setting him carefully on the ground. He can't bear to risk hurting the kid on top of whatever's already going on.

"I'm Tony Stark," he blurts, bursting through the scuffed doors of the ER with a bewildered Peter in tow and accosting the receptionist. "I should have - a private wing, I think? I need to get him checked out." He indicates the kid.

The receptionist's eyes widen; he scrambles to type something out on his computer, stammering out a "Yes, sir."

"Why do I need a checkup?" puzzles Peter, that over-lively openness again present across his face. "I'm - hang on - did I miss something? We're... in a..."

"Hospital," Tony reiterates, scrubbing his brow with the edge of his hand. "You're forgetting things."

"I'm... uh, what? Is... it's night? What is going on?"

The rational part of Tony knows the receptionist is only trying his best to log them in, but there's black clouding Tony's very vision now, boiling up agitation in his chest that screams for release. He slams a fist onto the desk separating him from the man. "What are you waiting for, the fucking Second Coming? Get me an appointment for my--"

"Tony."

Every ounce of tension drains from him at the sight of the kid meeting his eye with this shocked, sad expression that he can't bear.

The receptionist is frozen, eyebrows raised, face flushed. Peter circles Tony's forearm with a hand and gently says, "Tony, you're shouting. You don't have to get angry. It's okay."

Tony clenches his jaw, unclenches it. "Right," he mutters, rubbing a palm roughly back and forth across the side of his neck.

The receptionist interjects hesitantly. "You... you do have a private wing, sir. A nurse is coming down right now to meet you and take you both up for an exam."

"Okay," is all Tony can force out.

Peter's no use as a mediator by now: he's reverted to spinning in slow circles, gaping at the small, whitewashed waiting room.

"Kid, c'mon."

"Oh, Tony! Where... uh, where are we?"

* * *

"Well, I think I hardly need this test to determine that your reaction time is unaffected. In fact, it's uncommonly quick." With a small, bemused squint, the medical examiner sets aside her kit, then resumes the steady smile she's been tirelessly directing at both the kid and Tony throughout the series of tests she's done. "Play any sport, Peter?"

The kid darts his gaze over to Tony, then, in a spotless display of politeness amid confusion, asks, "I'm so sorry - uh, who are you?"

"Ellie," she answers without missing a beat. "I'm a nurse. I'm carrying out a few tests so we can give you a diagnosis."

Tony suspects he's the only one whose heart skips a beat whenever Peter repeats a question. The kid seems almost ordinary as Tony studies him carefully from where he's pulled up a seat close to the bed and taken Peter's IV-punctured hand. The only thing out of the ordinary, apart from his obvious memory loss, is the vulnerability with which he's cycling through emotion. One moment he'll be plastered with a faintly quizzical smile, the next he'll be restlessly biting his nails and fiddling with the corner of his t-shirt, the next he'll be seeking Tony's gaze and touch every other second in a subliminal bid for reassurance.

He swivels to face Tony, then says in a half-whisper, "Tony, I think - I think something's going on."

Although half of Tony thrums with sympathy for the clueless kid, the other, suddenly and inexplicably, finds it uproariously _funny._

He dutifully answers all the same: "You're having some trouble with your memory, Pete. That's why you're getting checked over. But you're in hospital, you're in the right place, so there's nothing to worry about."

"Wow. Okay."

"Yeah." Tony squeezes the kid's hand in time with the clench of his heart.

The kid does the thing again where he takes in the room with wide sweeps of his gaze and a mouth hanging slightly open. As hospitals go, it's very pleasant: clean white walls and a mottled blue floor, a window to the right of Peter's wide hospital bed across which sterile curtains have been drawn - and yet there's an echoing emptiness to the place.

Leaning slowly but purposefully towards Peter, Ellie raises her glove-clad hands to examine his head. "Now, if it's alright, I'm--"

This time, Tony doesn't catch the infinitesimal shift in Peter's eyes where he loses his grip on yet another negligible few seconds of memory. All Peter sees is a foreign pair of hands reaching for him, and he reacts on impulse, lurching away with a protective arm extended in front of him to ward off any incoming blows.

Tony leaps up from his seat and sets a hand on the distressed kid's shoulder while Ellie shifts backwards and holds her arms up in a motion of surrender, calm to the last gasp. Peter half-flinches, appearing to be tugged by warring intuition in two directions simultaneously. "Kid, it's okay," Tony rushes to say, at the same time as Peter gasps, "Whoa - what?"

"You're fine. No need to fight." Tony graces a hand rhythmically up and down the kid's back in the feather-light way he knows the kid likes.

Peter blinks rapidly as if the motion might recall his hours of lost memory. "Man. Sorry," he murmurs, casting a sheepish glance towards the woman beside him in scrubs. Some kind of medical... person?

"What's going on?" he ventures.

* * *

Peter's bloodwork comes back clear: no signs of concussion or drug influence.

"Sir, our diagnosis is that Peter is experiencing an episode of transient global amnesia. TGA, for short."

"GTA? Like Grand Theft Auto?" Peter asks blearily, lifting his head from where he'd been half-dozing in his bed. Tony doesn't blame him. It's 1 AM in the morning, and they've spent the vast majority of time waiting for answers. For Peter, that has meant asking the same questions over and over, appearing sometimes panicked, sometimes unaware, sometimes overly chipper. For Tony, that has meant the constant low-grade fear at Peter's condition sitting like a rock behind his sternum and trying not to go out of his mind answering the kid's questions.

"No, kid," Tony begins before clearing his throat to remove the rough quality from his voice. "TGA. Hate to burst your bubble."

Peter shrugs, an indulgent smile playing across his lips, and Tony can't help but return it just a little.

"Transient global amnesia?" Tony prompts to the doctor, who somehow appears wide-awake at this ungodly hour of the night. Tony hasn't a clue how, in the past, he himself managed to maintain as skewed a sleep schedule as would allow him to stay up this late while still feeling human.

"A sudden but temporary period of memory loss."

Tony latches onto _temporary_ and lets all else fall into shadow. "Oh, thank God," he retorts from behind a wide-spread hand. "Kid's already driving me up the wall." There's no way in hell he'd admit to anyone that he's covered his face to shield from the sheen that's appearing over his eyes in his relief.

"It's also unlikely to happen again or affect your health otherwise. There's not a lot of information available on what does cause these episodes, but we know that they're not serious."

"But I still have amnesia?" Peter pipes up from his reclined position in bed. He hasn't given in and tucked himself under the sheets yet, but Tony suspects they may be of use yet.

"Yes, you have amnesia - of a kind,” is the doctor’s patient reply.

"That's cool." Peter, at the moment, is remarkably unbothered by what's going on. "Thanks for giving me a cool diagnosis."

Tony mentally tacks on a phrase addressing Peter's shiny-new diagnosis to the spiel he's come to repeat to the kid every time his memory slips. _"You're in the hospital right now. I took you here. You're having some problems with your memory right now. Apparently, it's an episode of transient global amnesia. TGA. It's nothing serious. Don't worry about it."_

Tony is aware that he’s being short with the doctor, but he knows himself, knows it’ll be difficult to sit by through the kid’s memory loss and do nothing. He needs… he needs to fix the problem, as crude as that sounds. The kid must be fixed. “That’s it? No… treatment? Nothing to get his memory back faster?”

“I’m afraid not, Mister Stark,” is the reply.

“And you don’t know what caused it?”

“As of yet, there is no way to determine the cause of episodes of TGA. There just isn’t enough information.”

_You mean, there isn’t enough information yet._

Tony makes a mental note to open a new sector of the SI medical research branch.He’ll learn the specifics of memory loss by himself if he has to, if that’s the price he has to pay to secure the knowledge in his heart that Peter will be safe and he’ll never have to endure this nightmare again.

"I can't let him go just yet, however," the doctor continues. "It's highly unlikely that anything more serious develops from the symptoms, but we'd like to keep monitoring Peter until his memory returns, if that's alright."

Tony sighs. _Get ready for the longest night of your life._ "Fantastic. Thank you."

* * *

At 3 AM, Tony tells the kid yet again, "You're having an episode of transient global amnesia. TGA."

This time, Tony simply waits, biting back a grin, for what he's almost certain will be Peter's answer.

The kid's laugh is borderline drunk. "GTA? I have Grand Theft Auto Disease? 'Cause if I do, don't try and fix it. Leave me be. 's cool."

Tony snorts against his will. He's counted twelve times the kid has responded in a similar fashion, and he hasn't got a clue why it's become so funny to hear him crack the _exact_ same joke over and over again, but it's just - hilarious.

"You know, it's the twelfth time I've told you that, kiddo." There's a worry still lingering at the roots of Tony's heart - when is there ever a time when he can _stop_ worrying for the troublemaker beside him now? - and yet overriding all is the insanity of the kid's behavior right now. Tony's gotten so used to it that now he's able to simply sit back and enjoy the show.

"Really?"

Tony nods, eyebrows raised, but Peter's attention is already elsewhere: he begins to fish intently in the multitude of pockets in his trademark khaki jacket. Tony realises he should help the kid take it off and get him more comfortable soon, but instead chooses to follow his curiosity for the moment, studying the kid as he unearths a worn-down pen and pulls a sleeve up, setting the pen on the skin of his inner forearm before beginning to scrawl something there.

"Kid, I appreciate that you're sparing my sanity, but can we - can we _not_ re-enact Memento right now? I'll get you some paper."

Peter's face scrunches up in that signature way that has no right to be so endearing. "Memento?"

"Memento," Tony repeats, in the hope that it'll jog the kid's memory. _Memory. Uh oh._ "The movie. We watched it together a couple of weeks back."

"We did?" asks the kid, something only-half discernible in his gaze which Tony suspects is disappointment.

_Well, if that isn’t ironic._

As reluctant as Tony is to press the kid while he's feeling bummed out about his forgetfulness, the needier side of him needs to know: "You do... you remember _me_ , right?"

The kid recognized him at the library, for sure. It calms Tony to know that, even while burdened with memory loss, Peter knows to run to him when he's in trouble. But he can't tell how much of the recent past is lost for the kid. The movie nights, the voicemails, the suit upgrades, the stupid, mundane moments that Tony barely admits to himself are prized above much of the world in his heart.

"Yeah, of course, Tony," Peter rushes to say, assigning emphasis to the name in sincere affirmation. He ums and ahs for a bit before blurting, "Your date of birth is May 29th, 1970?"

At this, Tony allows himself an incredulous chuckle. "Affirmative, fanboy."

The unguarded, innocent part of Peter that seems more exposed than ever tonight lights up at the praise. He smiles bashfully but brightly, spurring Tony on to continue the quiz.

"How many suit models do I have?"

"That's easy, 85."

"What about... the day I escaped Afghanistan?"

"May 1st, 2008." Peter's tone has taken on that adorably nerdy enthusiasm it does when he's talking about his topics of high interest. The realisation that _Tony_ is one of Peter's favourite subjects sends a blow like a sledgehammer of affection towards Tony's heart.

"Wow. Yes. When... how old was I when I inherited SI?"

"Twenty-one. It was in 1991. And I know about all the stuff Stark Industries does to help people, too." Peter begins to list on his fingers, pausing to rub his eyes groggily yet persisting as if his life depends on it. "The NYC tech convention. Your developments in intellicrop technology. Those, those miniature arc-reactor-powered hybrid vehicles. The fireworks on the 4th of July." The kid smiles to himself at that. "And we don't, like, directly talk about that stuff in the... internship. So it's not cheating."

Tony often forgets that the kid was a lifelong fan.

"I'd be impressed either way, kid."

Peter's so engrossed in reeling off facts that he hasn't cared to wonder at the strange room he's in and how he got there. It's encouraging to Tony, but he's running out of ideas.

"Hm. Oh. How about a bonus round?"

"What do you mean?"

Tony smirks. If he shuffles a little closer to the kid, there's no reason behind it. "What day did I first meet Peter Parker?"

The kid's mouth opens, then shuts. A blush darkens his ears.

"C'mon, you've gotta know that."

"I... I, uh, I actually don't."

"May 23rd, 2016," recites Tony smugly.

"How do _you_ know that?" Peter returns with bemusement in his manner.

 _Because I encode every moment I spend with you into my long-term memory, kid. It's not going anywhere._ "Because I'm a genius."

"Billionaire, playboy, philanthropist," Peter tacks on with enthusiasm and seemingly without thought.

Tony winces. "Sure."

The kid rushes to Tony's own defence. "You are. Well, maybe--" he cuts himself off with a yawn of enormous proportions, nose scrunching, and Tony wonders if this kid is up against him and is actually _trying_ to melt his heart into a useless, sappy puddle. Instinctively, Tony reaches to slide off his jacket for him; Peter sits forward for a moment and allows Tony to gently tug his arms out of the khaki fabric without seeming to register it much. "Sorry - maybe not the playboy part, not anymore. I mean - definitely not! You're with Pepper, so - no."

Tony bundles up the jacket and sets it on the kid's bedside table with a small, affirmative shake of his head.

"But you're a philanthropist, for sure," Peter continues to ramble drowsily. Tony follows his growing paternal instinct and tugs the sheets out from under the kid before settling them on top, essentially tucking him in. "What was I - oh. Right! Stark Industries helps people out all the time. Like, uh, with those miniature arc reactors that power--"

"Yup. I know, kid." Sliding one of the stack of pillows out from under him, Tony watches as Peter sinks gratefully down into his bed.

"Oh, cool," breathes Peter, already letting his eyes slide shut and turning his face into the pillow.

Tony's having thoughts of calling it a day too. Thank God for the bed beside the kid's which folds down out of a cabinet.

"Am I missing something?" Peter mumbles just as Tony's reaching to turn out the bedside lamp. "Where are we?"

"Just go to sleep, Pete."

* * *

Tony is woken by a familiar pair of hands gently shaking him. "Tony. Sorry. Could you - wake up?"

At the sound of Peter's voice, Tony snaps awake, flying into a sitting position, preparing himself in an instant for disaster. The kid jolts away from him in surprise. There's a dim, warm light emanating from the bedside lamp Peter's turned on, incongruous with his knotted muscles after a night in a fold-down bed.

"Kid," he says, voice gravelly, "It's okay. I'm here."

"I know, but--"

Gripping Peter's upper arms, Tony begins his spiel: "You're in the hospital. I took you here because you're having some memory problems. It's called transient global amnesia--"

Peter cuts him off with gleaming eyes. "Yeah, I know."

"You - what?"

"I remember."

The words drive a breath of relief from both of their chests; they exhale in tandem.

Suddenly, a whole lot of pressure Tony was unaware he was shouldering dissipates, leaving an overwhelming lightness that leaves him no choice but to bundle the kid up in a crushing hug. Peter, exhausted as he is, doesn't move away or exclaim in surprise, simply letting his head drop to rest against Tony's shoulder.

"You're gonna kill me one day with your tomfuckery, kid, I swear," Tony breathes shakily. As a second thought, he leans over the kid's shoulder slightly to press a button in order to call a nurse to get them out of this place. "Memory loss? What next? You gonna go through old age before me?"

Peter laughs. "Can't help it. Parker Luck. You should've done a better background check before caring about me."

Taking another uneven breath, Tony admits, "You scared the life out of me."

Peter hugs him tighter, jaw clenching. "I'm alright now. I really am. I'm - I was such a mess. I'm sorry."

"No, you were - good, really good. You know I get like this when--"

They're interrupted by the swinging open of the door to admit a flustered-looking nurse. "You called? What do you need help with?"

Reluctant to let go of the kid, who is warm and comforting, Tony instead cranes his neck to meet her eye. "His memory is back. If you could sign him out, whatever you need to do, that'd be fantastic."

A smile creeps across the nurse's face before it is quickly smothered by a swipe of her hand. "Right. I'll need to check his vitals one last time, so..." she indicates Peter, who stares resolutely at the ground, his mouth also twitching minutely towards a smile despite the blush creeping across his cheeks. "If I could... have him for a moment?"

Maybe because of the lack of sleep Tony's managed to procure that night, maybe the Peter-induced mushiness, maybe both, Tony says, "Could you just - work around me? We're kinda having a moment."

"If you'd like me to come back in a few minutes instead--"

"No, I think we both need to get out of here. Get some beauty rest."

The nurse nods with pursed lips, then awkwardly reaches for Peter's hand from where it's wrapped around Tony's torso and clips a monitor on the tip of his index finger. Peter stifles a giggle in Tony's shoulder.

Just to make that glorious sound last longer, Tony adds, “You know, you forgot the time when we watched Memento.”

“Well, if that isn’t ironic,” Peter says, repeating Tony’s exact thought at the time, and, for just a second, Tony understands a little of why Pepper always remarks on how similar he is to the kid.

They both descend into quiet laughter; even the nurse behind Tony’s back breaks into a short, incredulous chuckle at the pair of them.

Tony reaches for Peter’s free arm and shows the inside to the kid. “In fact, I think you wrote yourself a reminder just there.”

“Oh, _God_ ,” Peter groans, squinting at the scrawled phrase. “I don’t remember _that_. Was I acting crazy?”

Tony heads for the consoling route, not wishing to give the tired kid grief. “Only a little. What does it say, anyway?”

“I can’t make it out comple-- oh. Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Peter mutters with a bashful smile, reaching hurriedly to fold himself back around Tony.

Okay, _now_ Tony’s interest is piqued.

“Kid,” he presses, knowing how easily the kid cracks.

“Well, I wrote _GTA_ and _memory loss_ , I think.”

Tony’s lip curls. “And then?”

Peter sighs, then mumbles something against Tony’s shirt.

“Hm?”

Lifting his head just slightly, Peter repeats: “ _Tell Tony he’s the best and that you love him_.”

“Aw, kiddo,” Tony croons mockingly, unwilling to venture any further into Sap City than he’s already gone tonight, but he holds the kid a little tighter all the same.

“Did I… did I manage to do that?” ventures Peter.

“Sadly not. As much as I would have enjoyed the phrase, I guess I preferred that you didn’t read off your arm every few seconds like we were performing Shakespeare and you’d forgotten your lines.”

Peter huffs out a laugh, then looks Tony in the eye. “Well - try not to cringe – uh…“ ceremoniously raising his arm and making a show of reading from the note there, he proclaims, “Tony, you’re the best and I, and I love you.”

Memory loss or not, the kid seems hell-bent on throwing emotional curveballs at him until he gives in to the still-seething worry in the pit of his chest, matched only by the glow of affection from the kid which he knows comes right from his heart.

As of yet, he hasn’t a word in his head to describe what’s going on, so he makes up for speech with a fierce kiss to Peter’s hairline and an all-encompassing embrace.

As Peter's pulse, temperature and blood pressure are measured, he rests in Tony's arms, knowing no harm will come to him while he's there.

**Author's Note:**

> The premise of this fic originated in part from an episode of TGA my grandpa experienced a couple of years ago. It passed in just under 24 hours and he is fine now, but my mum still keeps a video of him repeating questions to her in the waiting room with this quizzical demeanour that became very funny to my mum and granny who were looking after him at the time! TGA is a strange and little-known form of amnesia so I thought I'd bring it to light here.  
> Thank you, everyone, for continuing to support me! It really does mean the world!! Drop a comment if you'd care to and have a wonderful Easter/Sunday!


End file.
